


how could anybody have you and lose you (and not lose their mind)

by questionsthemselves



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Kind of a fix-it, Headfin Kraglin, Kraglin is an angsty awkward string bean, M/M, References to Depression, WARNING for references to suicidal ideations, Yondu lives sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-30 15:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsthemselves/pseuds/questionsthemselves
Summary: It’s the end of the world, and somehow he’s still here. It’s the end of the world, and somehow no one sees it.The doctor he gets to wedge the implant into his brain doesn’t have a license on Knowhere. They probably never had a license, but Kraglin couldn’t give a stars-damn fuck about it because the worst they could do is kill him, and that’s not so bad really, is it?He wake up after though. He wakes up and he wakes up and he wakes up and every time it’s to a weight stretched across where his mohawk used to sit, pressing heavy like the sweetest kind of penance.Where Stakar comes too late, Yondu's sent into the black of space with no rites to give him passage to whatever's beyond, and Kraglin doesn't deal.





	1. no, i can keep running

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of Ravager funeral rites being needed to help someone 'pass over' so to speak is not my idea originally, although I've lost track of where I read this. Please send names my way and I'll add credit here! 
> 
> This fic is dedicated to Baylop from the 99th - Happy Birthday!!! Hope it's a lovely one. ^_^

It’s the end of the world, and somehow he’s still here. It’s the end of the world, and somehow no one sees it. 

The doctor he gets to wedge the implant into his brain doesn’t have a license on Knowhere. They probably never had a license, but Kraglin couldn’t give a stars-damn fuck about it because the worst they could do is kill him, and that’s not so bad really, is it? 

He wake up after though. He wakes up and he wakes up and he wakes up and every time it’s to a weight stretched across where his mohawk used to sit, pressing heavy like the bittersweetest kind of penance. 

There’s planets where drowning in drink is easy, and planets where he has to settle for drowning in the seas but every time he goes under he can hear Yondu growling at him, “If you die, I’m gonna kill you,” and he comes back up. 

Peter used to try and comm him, cajoling in that way he gets when he thinks he’s being all charming, tries to get him to come back or some crap like that but there’s only so many times he can hear that beep on his personal comm coming in, heart leaping traitorously like a trained dog at to what that used to mean, before he grinds it under his heels. 

It’s easy enough to make money with the kind of skills he has. He’ll never be charming but he’s good at liberating possessions to more conniving owners and when that fails there’s always the games.  Peoploids have been paying to watch other peoploids tear each other apart since the beginning of time and he’s born to it, after all, born for laughing with a mouth full of blood and baring teeth to sky. 

At least the heat of it leaves him cleansed, long enough to move on again. 

 

Stakar had offered him a place with his crew, but Kraglin had hocked up and spit at his feet. How _dare_ he come here, too late to give Yondu the funeral rites that would have eased him into whatever awaits Ravagers beyond, and expect atonement? Kraglin should know better than anyone, sometimes there’s no redemption. 

Nebula of all people, is the one who helps him get away. Kraglin had been sitting white-faced and limp in the engine room when she’d walked in and awkwardly dropped a credit chit in his lap. It’d taken a moment for the wall of static in his mind to even register it but then she’d said, “take it. Take and do whatever you need to do,” and he’d realized this was her tit-for-tat for everything she’d never really be sorry for. 

He was gone within an hour. 

 

Kraglin knows the wiring in his brain’s gone wrong, making him go round the twist. The first sign after all, is hearing voices in your head and the voices are getting stronger every day. Well, voice. Because of course it’s his voice, of course the only one he’d hear in his grief-drunk mind is Yondu. 

Sometimes it was coaxing and most of the time it was angry but either way it didn’t matter, did it, because it was never the real thing. There’s a night where he’s sitting on a cliff on a planet he hasn’t bothered to learn the name of, listening to the voice getting louder and frantic and suddenly he can’t take it anymore, he’s lifting his blaster to the edge of the implant, hand barely steady enough to keep it there before suddenly his arm’s jerking down like someone’s yanked it and he can’t take it anymore, _verdemmen kor_ , he can’t _do_ this anymore. 

The next day he’s washing his stinking leathers, carefully stitching the flame patch back on his sleeve, and he sets a course for the nearest space port. 

 

Kraglin ends up with one of the odd mercenary groups that fill the gaps in the criminal world that the Ravagers don’t. Mostly a lot of smaller gigs, odd jobs for clients too low on the hierarchy to afford any better. It’s a beginning though, it keeps him moving and distracted from the running commentary in his head. 

Every few odd night he lets himself think on it, lets it settle into his joints like the ache of good bruise, and treasures the way it sweet talks him. Maybe someday, he thinks, he’ll be able to sleep afterwards. No matter what the cold hours of the night promise though, morning comes inevitable, life moves inexorably on, and in his own way he moves on with it. 

 

Seeing the Guardians is like peeling back the scab of a partially healed wound - painful and deeply right. Somehow they’ve managed to both end up on Xala, different jobs for different clients, but their kind of disreputable all frequent the same bars and Kraglin looks up from his green pain thinner of a drink to see Peter slapping the table at some joke his musclebound friend is telling. 

He tries to get up, tries to slink out before any of them see him, but he hears Peter’s gasp, his cry of “wait, wait, _Kraglin,”_ as he’s trying to shove his way through the crowd of humanoids and nearly tripping over his own feet in the rush, the big pink idiot. 

It’s not a small galaxy, Kraglin tells himself it makes sense they’d run into each other eventually and sighs, lets his shoulders slump for a minute before squaring up and turning to meet them.

“H’lo,” he says weakly, with an awkward little wave he immediately regrets.Peter’s stumbled to a halt a couple feet away, blinking with his eyes all suspiciously shiny, as his stocky green giant friend, and his smaller green assassin friend move to flank him on either side. 

Peter just stands there jaw wobbling for a minute before he gulps and shuffles closer. 

“Hey buddy, we missed you, taking off like that without a word,” he says, hand hovering in the air like it can’t quite decide whether he wants to pat Kraglin on the arm or pull him in for a hug. 

Kraglin shrugs, shifts from foot to foot and wishes desperately he was anywhere else but here. After a beat of silence, Peter gestures back towards the table he’d been sitting at and asks, “sit down for a drink with us?” 

Kraglin doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to be made to say words, but his captain’s soft spot had always been Petey and he supposes after all this he might have a small one too.

 

Kraglin’s built up an impressive tolerance, even more so than when he was a Ravager, but even that’s not enough when they end up downing some kind of illegally important shit brewed in the edgiest reaches of the galaxy. It loosens his tongue and the next time the voice in his head makes a comment, he’s snapping at it to shut up, clutching the edge of the implant with one hand and wishing he could tear it off his head. 

Through blurred vision he sees two Peters looking at him sideways, two Peters hesitantly asking if he’s okay. It’s not, and it’s never gonna be, and he tells Peter that, tells him the whole sad thing and then finally, thankfully, passes out. 


	2. all of my old haunts are now all haunting me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kraglin wakes up on the Milano, the same way he always wakes up nowadays - dragging crusty eyes open to the feel of his heart tumbling down to his ice cold feet.

Kraglin wakes up on the _Milano_ , the same way he always wakes up nowadays - dragging crusty eyes open to the feel of his heart tumbling down to his ice cold feet. He never used to get cold when he shared a bunk with Yondu – sleeping with him was like being curled up next to a rumbly reactor engine, all warmth and vibration from his contented chesty purrs, the sheltering curve of their bodies together shutting out the rest of the world. 

There’s a wistful twinge in the back of his head, and he squeezes his eyes shut, gives himself a little shake, makes himself roll out of bed. 

 

Breakfast is awkward. Peter tries to keep a cheerful mien, but he’s about the only one that’s not blatantly hungover and resentful about it. He’s awkwardly sidling around asking Kraglin what his plans are, when that bug girl from Ego trips in, happily oblivious to the tension.

She’s humming a tuneless little song, setting in next to Kraglin as she pokes at her breakfast cheerfully, and the sound is enough to make his already throbbing head flop down to hit the table as he wishes desperately he had enough brain cells to ask for a pain killer. 

He can hear her little concerned gasp, sees the shadow of her leaning over him as he tries to pry his face off the dubiously sticky table top. The warmth of her hand cups the air above his arm, and she sounds uncertain as she says, “If you want, I can help. I cannot make take the pain, but your mind will be clearer.”

Kraglin feels his shoulders tense a little, hesitant, but she continues sturdily, “I often do this for the others when they consume too much alcohol,” and as much as Kraglin wants to wallow in his sulk a little longer he grunts out a nod in the affirmative. He needs to get back to the crew he’s attached himself to sooner than later and that’ll be a lot easier to do if he can make himself focus enough to walk in a straight line. 

The warm smoothness of her palm meets skin, sliding down to rest on his bicep and with a snap the dull mutter in the back of his head rushes to a roar, battering against his skull, skittering electric up and down his arms and he’s screaming, falling off the bench, scrambling backwards and away. 

When he comes to himself he’s on all fours, the only sound filling the air his heady gasping pants. He can’t look up, can’t look at them, shame crawling up from his throat to fill his head until it buckles into numbness with the weight of it. 

“Mantis…” he hears Peter hesitate, “what did you do? What happened?” 

There’s something fragile and wondering in her voice when she answers. 

“It was not me that hurt him, it was the presence he carries with him. It tried to reach back when it felt me but I think it was too loud.” 

_The presence he carries with him…_

It echoes around Kraglin’s aching head, like if it can just slam into the right slot everything will click into place and make sense again.

_The presence…._

He had to have been imagining it, the conversations, the desperate ranting, the sweet nothings crooned in his ear in the twilight ache of evening. He fucked around in his brain and he paid the price for it, that’s _all it was_. 

Kraglin wants to sob, he wants to beat his fists against the floor but he can’t do either, so he bites his lip hard enough to taste the copper-sweet tang of blood and forces himself up.

“Kraglin…?” Peter’s coming closer, kneeling down on the floor, big hands hovering on his shoulder blades. Kraglin wants to croak at him to back off, but the words stick in his throat as Peter gently squeezes. The kid always was too touchy for his own good. Probably got that from his dad.

 

Turns out the doc hadn’t cross wired him in quite the way he thought. A visit from the much vaunted Guardians of the Galaxy is enough to have him freely spilling his unlicensed guts out, telling them how sometimes that kind of neuro-wiring let to consequences like being able to tap into energies that no one else could, feel and hear presences stuck in the miserable limbo between worlds. 

It’s permanent too. Whatever snarl his brain’s been twisted in, that’s the way it’s staying, and Kraglin almost can’t believe it.

There’s the caveats of course. He’ll ever be the only one that can hear Yondu, forever the only one that knows when he’s there, but the deep greedy center of him can’t help but be glad that at least he has some part of his captain, some flickering connection just for him. He wants to hurt himself at that thought, at being glad his captain can’t move on and find peace but he’s not a good person – he’s never pretended he is. 

He thinks Yondu wouldn’t hold it against him. 

 

Peter’s cleared out a room for him with a pile of furs in the corner and Kraglin’s settled there, flat on his back, weight of the implant anchoring him down. The convulsive clench and unclench of his hands at his sides is the only thing not waiting, all quiescent and quivering for when he hears that sharp grumble.

_‘Bout time you figured out what was goin’ on, boy_

Before he can choke them back he’s spilling out begging apologies, stuttering nonsense, and _gotverdamn_ he can feel the warmth of tears start dripping down. Yondu could never stand when he cried, didn’t know what to do with him on the rare occasion it happened and sure enough, there’s spiky discomfort and the feel of warmth on his forehead. 

_C’mon Obfonteri, that’s enough of that now_

But it’s not enough, it’s never gonna be enough, he's alone now and Yondu’s _not there,_ he’s never really gonna be there ever again _._

_Wha’chu think this is, ya idiot, been trying to get ya to notice it was me fer months now. Ain’t my fault yer dumb as a bunch of sticks_

There’s an immediate trickle of guilt, like Yondu didn’t really mean to call him stupid, but it’s enough to punch a watery rasp of a laugh out of Kraglin. It’s comforting, somehow, that even death isn’t enough to mellow his crotchety captain.

“I miss you,” he chokes out, “sir, I _miss_ you.” 

There’s a low cantankerous mutter of _Sentiment_ and then Kraglin’s laughing and laughing and for a moment it’s almost alright again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a theory i read once that while ghosts can get attached to objects, they can also be held by people who refuse to let them go. thus, this.


	3. only motherfucker in this city who can handle me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wakes the next day to a shiver of warmth, a teasing _You gonna wake up and give me a good morning’, Krags?_  
>  His mind creaks groggily, then in the suspension between one moment and the next he remembers it’s real, that it’s really Yondu and that the sweet rotting guilt and need festering inside him is bubbling up and filling his veins, burning him fever-bright and hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief reference to suicidal ideations

He wakes the next day to a shiver of warmth, a teasing _You gonna wake up and give me a good morning’, Krags?_

His mind creaks groggily, then in the suspension between one moment and the next he remembers it’s real, that it’s really Yondu and then the sweet rotting guilt and need festering inside him is bubbling up and filling his veins, burning him fever-bright and hot. 

In a universe this big, he’s sure, there has to be a way to raise his captain back, and he’s got the rest of his life to find it. It’s less than an hour before he’s stealing an M-ship off the dock of Knowhere, and plunging through jump points as fast as he can find leads on where to go. 

He’s got a purpose now, and a reason to wake up. He’s not gonna lose that again. 

Each day makes something come a little wild and loose in Kraglin, something sick and defiant and he ignores the increasingly irritated pins-and-needles scratching in the back of his scalp. After all, Yondu’s the one that went and got himself dead, he can get pulled along and shut the hell up about whatever Kraglin decides has to be done about it. 

He tries the underground mechs of Xala, the wizened spirit matrons of Korona. He cuts off a finger for a Pluvian who promises him flesh for flesh, and nearly breaks when he’s left after with nothing but a brand new scar on his hand. 

Warming him in all the in-betweens though is the voice he hears when he closes his eyes, even if it’s not at all happy with Kraglin. Yondu’s been grumbling and griping since the first charlatan that dripped oily promises into Kraglin’s ear leaving nothing but poison slick waste in their wake.

It almost doesn’t matter though, because that voice is an assurance and a pledge. Every word’s a treasure because he’s not spinning loneliness into phantom existence – now when Yondu talks to him, he’s always talking back.

 

One more planet, one more failure. It’s been more months than he can count now, and he’s not any closer than before.

_You know y’gotta let this go, Obfonteri, ain’t doing any good for either of us_

They’ve had this argument enough by now Kraglin gripes placidly back by rote, but this time Yondu isn’t having it.

_I c’n see you wasting to bones, don’t think I can’t, ya tunnel-visioned twiggy idiot_

It’ll be worth it though, Kraglin’s sure, he just has to try hard enough, do better. He ignores Yondu’s snort, the flicking sting that hits the bridge of his nose. It’ll be worth it. 

Anyway, deep in buried parts of himself that most days he pretends isn’t there, he knows it isn’t like he doesn’t owe Yondu this penance. He owes it because it wasn’t just the mutiny, it wasn’t just that he’d left Yondu to freeze in the shattering remnants of Ego, hadn’t saved their crew. After all, they would never have been banished in the first place if it weren’t for Kraglin and that’s something he can’t ever forget.

The call had seemed so innocuous. First mates’ general duties often included having a go at sorting through the drivel that landed on their captain’s datapad, and he’d seen the message, thought of parents who cared so little they’d let the Kree take their baby, decided that maybe Yondu could choose for himself whether or not to turn down the fatherly request of this Ego fellow with its coaxingly high incentive.

Of course Yondu hadn’t turned it down. Of course he hadn’t because no matter the hell the universe had put him through Yondu had never lost that soft broken thing inside him, and so he took the job, and so he was thrown from the family that’d saved him, and so he kept the boy of mad god.

So he died righting his wrongs. 

Kraglin thinks he'll never forgive himself for that. 

 

There’s one woman, a species Kraglin’s never seen, with a threatening glisten to her spines that keep Kraglin from asking. She makes him bring her things, stirs him up a potion that knocks him on his back, shakes him with fevers and visions until he doesn’t know if he’s dead or dreaming but when he wakes up he can see Yondu. He can _see_ him standing over him all bristling, pushes up on his elbows to reach a trembling hand for his captain, and Yondu socks him in the jaw. 

It’s not nearly as strong as a punch from the living version would have been, but it’s enough to have Kraglin’s head snapping back, grinning helplessly at the familiar ache.

“What the hell were you thinkin’ boy?” Yondu yells at him, and his voice doesn’t sound like it’s vibrating through water anymore, it’s clear and gruff and perfect and Kraglin’s saying, “ _Cap’n,”_ and he’s collapsing back to the ground, and Yondu just looks at him, narrow and piercing. 

“Obfonteri,” Yondu crouching down by him, reaching out to grip him by his chin and give him a little shake, the other wispy hand grabbing roughly right in the dip of his shoulder. “Kraglin, _stop.”_

He’s staring into Kraglin’s reddened eyes, brows furrowed like if he can just scowl them hard enough the force of his will can drill some sense into Kraglin’s head. 

“Yer gonna scramble those meager brains ‘a yours until yer a droolin’ shaking fool, ya hear me? I ain’t worth this boy.” 

Except he is, he’s worth everything to Kraglin, worth a million times this and more. 

Then Yondu’s taking a broad calloused palm and giving him a firm whack up the backside of his scalp, sending jarring spidery pain through the implant. 

“No,” Yondu says firmly, making sure to hold Kraglin with his eyes. “No.” 

Kraglin can’t ignore that, can’t ignore a direct order from the only one who’ll ever really have his loyalty, and finally that desperate wailing thing in him gives, collapses and folds like punctured lungs and he’s gulping curses and screams and sobs at the unfairness of a universe that would taunt him like this and then take everything he ever had. 

Except this, a small quiet voice nudges him gently, and Yondu’s palm wraps around the back of his neck in something like absolution. Except this. 

 

Kraglin lives. Kraglin lives and he lives and he lives and it’s easier some days, and some days he only gets through by reminding himself he could choose to die tomorrow. He argues on the street with the invisible presence by his side, laughs wildly at the path people skirt around him, and he doesn’t care anymore what anyone thinks of him because the only one who matters will be laughing at them too. 

 

He runs into the Guardians again, of course he does, because it is a small galaxy after all. He gives them a grin with too many teeth at the way Peter eyes his tattered black leathers, the arrowflame tattoo spiraling up his neck. Peter looks worn, like the universe has had a particularly good time tramping all over him recently, so since Kraglin’s favorite bar on this planet is only a few minutes walk away this time he’s the one to issue the invite. 

Yondu’s strangely quiet, seeing his boy again. He pushes himself in to sit next to Kraglin at the bar, and instead of spending the whole time bemoaning his absent ability to get drunk he spends it staring broodily at Peter. It take until Kraglin's fifth drink before he grunts out, "Petey looks like shit."

Kraglin snorts, slumping sideways enough he nearly topples off the bar stool.

“Hey Peter, guess who’s still worrying after ya,” he’s giggling a little, thinks muzzily those drinks must’ve been stronger than he thought, or maybe he’s lost a little of his tolerance. Leaning a little into Peter, he whispers conspiratorially, “He still loves ya y’know, the tetchy bastard, just can’t up an’ tell you hisself.” 

Peter blinks wetly, then slings an arm over Kraglin to make happy little drunk sounds into his shoulder. 

“You should tell’im,” Peter hiccups, with a clumsy pat at Kraglin’s knee, “should tell’im I miss him, hear that? I miss him.” 

Kraglin can feel all that warm burbly happiness Yondu’s not at all covering with his blustery grumbling, and he grins dopily at Peter. 

“Yeah, he knows.” 

He ignores Yondus’ weak protests, tilts sideways to nuzzle into the outline of a scruffly blue cheek, and thinks suddenly,  _oh._ That constant throbbing hurt isn't really throbbing anymore, almost feels like there isn’t anything there but tender scar tissue and even though he’ll never have everything he wants, what he does have… what he does have is good. 

It still hurts, _stars_ it still hurts when he reaches out and Yondu slips through his fingers like dust but he’s still here, still swaggering his ghostly blue self around and smirking down at Kraglin, and somehow that, is its own kind of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....and that's it, folks! ^_^ All comments are love  <3

**Author's Note:**

> comments are <3


End file.
